The Rise and Fall of Becky Sharp

by Sarra Manning

  ‘So, how is she today?’ he asked, with an anxious look towards the ceiling as if he expected Matilda to suddenly bang on the floor and demand to know why they were talking about her.

  ‘She was an awful colour this morning and quite wobbly on her feet, but she insisted on going out to lunch and managed to eat a little grilled salmon and some asparagus,’ Becky dutifully reported. ‘Then she had a nap this afternoon and she’s on pretty good form now. Though Briggs and I have made her promise that she’s only to have a couple of glasses of champagne.’

  ‘Yeah, she shouldn’t be mixing all those pills with too much alcohol,’ Rawdon noted. Becky now knew first hand that he was an expert at mixing pills with a lot of alcohol. But he wasn’t a mean drunk and the pills and other substances that he liked to sniff and snort clouded his judgement rather than his temper. Otherwise she wouldn’t be pursuing him with such studied indifference that it hardly looked as if she were pursuing him at all. Rawdon was still holding Becky’s hand, his thumbs absent-mindedly caressing the backs of her fingers. ‘And we’ll make sure she’s on her way home by ten?’

  ‘Yup, and tucked up in bed,’ Becky agreed, then looked down at their joined hands in feigned surprise. ‘Oh!’ She pulled free. ‘OK, so we’re done here, then?’

  Rawdon looked upwards again like their little tête-à-tête might be interrupted at any minute. ‘Yeah, I guess … except, well, I got you something.’

  ‘You did? I don’t know why,’ Becky said dismissively, though her heart knew exactly why and pounded triumphantly. ‘I’m just your aunt’s companion. Like something out of a boring old novel.’

  ‘You’re so much more than that,’ Rawdon said and Becky still couldn’t tell if that throaty inflection to his voice, the way he gazed down at her with such tenderness, was something he’d picked up at RADA, or if he really meant it. She supposed the tenderness worked on Rawdon’s other conquests – the pouty models and junior starlets – but Becky wouldn’t let herself succumb. She needed a lot more than tenderness from Rawdon. ‘Anyway, I got you this.’

  He pulled something out of the pocket of his jacket. His father had given her diamonds and yet Rawdon was giving her … ‘Another toy from a McDonalds Happy Meal,’ Becky said, holding the miniature polar bear between her thumb and forefinger like she was going to burn it the first chance she got. ‘I really don’t know why you keep giving me these.’

  ‘You know why,’ Rawdon said, staring at her with a deep and soulful look.

  Becky shook her head. ‘If you say so.’

  ‘You know what, Becky? You can be a real bitch.’

  She smiled then. The first genuine smile she’d given him since he’d walked through the door; he’d earned that smile. Becky leaned close, so she could smell the leather of his jacket, the cigarette he’d smoked outside, the faint whiff of Ponds cold cream, which he’d used to take off his make-up after he’d finished shooting. It was quite the heady combination.

  ‘Oh Rawdon,’ she whispered into his ear and felt him shudder before he could check himself. ‘You have no idea what I can be, but wouldn’t you love to find out?’

  *

  Before today, Becky had barely thought about George Wylie for months (though occasionally she’d flashback to that morning at the Sedleys’ when he’d laughed right in her face and she’d have to force herself not to punch the nearest wall), and then in the space of a few hours, he was spread all over pages six and seven of the Daily Mail and now he was right in front of her as she waited for Dame Matilda and Rawdon to be done with the red carpet.

  One day, quite soon hopefully, she’d be on the red carpet herself, rather than acting as a glorified pack mule, charged with looking after Matilda’s handbag and fur coat while she posed for the assembled photographers.

  George was with another man, a standard-issue chinless wonder with slicked-back hair and red braces, and was looking inordinately pleased with himself.

  One day, I will make him suffer horribly, Becky promised as she always did whenever George Wylie crossed her mind.

  Becky was standing in the little patch of no-man’s-land between the red carpet and the entrance to the restored Victorian cinema at the northernmost tip of Regent Street. She was almost obscured from view by the bank of photographers and publicists wrangling celebrities on and off the carpet, and anyway, George Wylie and his friend were far too busy gawping at any model/actress/whatever who wandered their way to pay any attention to Becky, so she was free to glare at him and wish that she could shoot laser death-rays out of her eyes.

  ‘Becky? Becky! It is you! Gosh, you look very cross. Is it because you’re cold? You must be cold with no coat and no tights on, but I love your dress!’

  Then before Becky could summon up a response to the sight of Amelia Sedley suddenly standing before her, Amelia threw her arms around the girl who she’d said was like a sister to her. And yet somehow, that sister had been all but forgotten as soon as they were parted and only worthy of the occasional text message, which was low in text and very high in emojis.

  Becky managed to extricate herself from Amelia’s clutches. Unlike everyone else in attendance, Amelia was dressed for the freezing February weather in a huge silver Puffa jacket over a black woolly dress, thick tights and were … were those … Ugg boots? Was Amelia Sedley actually wearing Ugg boots to a film premiere?

  ‘Interesting outfit,’ Becky noted then shivered. ‘I wish I’d dressed for comfort rather than style. Don’t frown, Emmy. You look adorable. Cuddly.’

  ‘It’s just so cold,’ Amelia confided. ‘George didn’t say it would be red carpet. He just asked if I wanted to come to the cinema with him.’

  ‘You’re here with George?’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it wonderful?’ Amelia’s eyes gleamed with the sheer bliss of being somewhere with George Wylie.

  ‘So, you’re not at university?’

  ‘Gosh, Becky, this is starting to feel a bit like a police interrogation.’ Amelia giggled nervously. ‘I hope you’re not going to shine a bright light in my eyes to get me to talk.’

  Becky folded her arms and looked as sorrowful as a girl could when she was wearing a silver-sequinned dress. ‘It’s just I thought you must be dead in a ditch somewhere. Though I can’t say I blame you for not wanting to stay in touch with someone who’s just a lowly nanny on minimum wage. I was obviously dragging you down and that’s why you stopped calling and emailing me …’

  ‘University is so much more intense now I’m in my final year. I’ve had so many essays to write.’ Amelia’s bottom lip wobbled alarmingly and she clasped her hands together as if she were praying for forgiveness. ‘And also, I don’t know how, but someone got hold of that old iPad that I lost, and I forgot to have it taken off my tariff and they’ve chomped through my entire data allowance and then some. When Daddy saw the bill, he hit the roof. Things at home have been quite … well, they’ve been quite difficult … Anyway, he actually confiscated my phone. Can you believe it?’ She widened her eyes.

  ‘No, I can’t believe it,’ Becky said. Everyone knew Mr Sedley thought sunbeams shot out of his daughter’s fulsome arse.

  ‘But it’s the truth! He said I had to learn how to manage a monthly budget and that I needed to become financially mature.’ Amelia’s eyes were now glassy with the threat of tears. ‘Like I said, things are very odd at the moment, which is why it was so lovely of George to try and cheer me up.’

  ‘Taking my name in vain, Emmy?’ said the sneering voice that made Becky’s hands curl into fists. She felt someone come up behind her and Amelia’s face transformed from crestfallen to ecstatic.

  ‘George, look who I found!’ Amelia cried and Becky turned her head in time to catch George’s astonishment that the redhead he’d been eyeing up was none other than …

  ‘Becky Sharp!’ he exclaimed, mouth agape.

  ‘George,’ Becky said thinly, then she looked past him to the far more agreeable sight of Rawdon Crawley loping towards her. ‘Rawdon! There you are!
’

  ‘Here I am,’ Rawdon agreed and because Becky was smiling delightedly at him for once, he dared to put his arm around her shoulders. ‘You’re like a block of ice. Here, take my jacket.’

  How Amelia goggled as Rawdon slipped off his leather jacket and placed it around Becky who tucked her arm into his.

  ‘Then you’ll be cold,’ she purred. ‘Let’s cuddle together for warmth.’ She glanced over at Amelia whose mouth was still hanging open. It wouldn’t do any harm to throw her a few Crawley crumbs. ‘Rawdon, this is my friend, Amelia Sedley, though she hasn’t spoken to me in months.’

  ‘I really am sorry about that, Becky …’

  ‘And, Emmy, this is Rawdon Crawley. Would you say we’re friends, Rawdon?’

  Rawdon put his hand on Becky’s chin to tip her face towards him. ‘I hope so,’ he drawled and it was a cheesy gesture and a cheesy line but Amelia sighed and now clasped her hands together in wordless rapture.

  While these introductions were being made, George was being soundly ignored: he couldn’t bear it any longer. ‘Crawley,’ he said in a clipped voice. ‘Haven’t seen you since you got expelled from school.’

  ‘Wylie, haven’t seen you since you were thrashing one of the younger boys for not cleaning your rugby boots to your liking,’ Rawdon recalled. As they glowered at each other, it was clear that there was absolutely no love lost between them, but there were still the bonds of the old school tie and all that, so they shook hands like they were trying to break each other’s bones. ‘What have you been up to lately?’

  George flushed. How could Rawdon have possibly missed his mostly flattering profile in the Daily Mail that very morning? ‘Well …’ he began.

  ‘He’s standing for Parliament,’ Becky interrupted. ‘Some old duffer has died and George hopes to take his safe Conservative seat.’

  ‘Conservative?’ Rawdon’s lip curled even though he’d never voted and if he had, then tax breaks trumped social reform every time.

  ‘Yes, well …’

  ‘It’s fascinating, isn’t it?’ Becky butted in again before George could get even three complete words out. ‘Let’s imagine young George with all the education and privilege that anyone could ever want, making an informed choice about his future. He looked around at what was going on in the world of politics: the stripping back of essential services, more children living in poverty, families reliant on foodbanks and thought yes, I want to be a Conservative MP, because these are my people.’ She gave George a dazzling smile, which made him see stars even though he hated this chippy young woman like he’d never hated anyone else before. ‘So, good luck in the by-election, George, and God help us all if you ever have a say in the running of this country.’

  Then she swept away as she could see Dame Matilda and Briggs waving impatiently at her.

  ‘She’s one hell of a girl,’ Rawdon murmured as he watched Becky reunite his aunt with her fur coat and help her into it.

  ‘She’s lovely,’ Amelia agreed. ‘One of the sweetest, kindest people I know. And gosh, you probably don’t remember him, but you were at Eton with my brother Jos, too.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, Emmy, nobody cares,’ George snapped. He wagged a reproving finger at Rawdon who looked at him in amusement. ‘I’m warning you, Crawley, you want to watch out for that Sharp girl.’

  ‘Thank you, boy,’ Rawdon said, with a look of peculiar gratitude. ‘I can see you’ve got her number.’

  Then George, pleased that Crawley wasn’t a complete fool, and Amelia, unhappy because her love for George didn’t blind her to all his many faults, went to find their seats.

  Pinkerton’s Talent Agency

  Dean Street

  Soho

  London

  ‘Bartha’

  13 Torrington Road

  Tooting

  London

  27th February

  Dear Martha

  Thank you so much for your letter and apologies for not replying sooner. Such are the demands of the business called show, as I’m sure you’re aware!

  So, Rebecca Sharp. Where to even start with that one? A very common-looking girl, though I’m sure she can’t help her appearance, given her rocky start in life – I don’t think she’d ever seen a vegetable, much less eaten one, until I took her in after the death of her father, who was a business acquaintance of mine.

  I say ‘business’ but the man never did an honest day’s work in all the time I knew him. He was a card counter, confidence trickster and crook who ended up dying in the infirmary of Wormwood Scrubs.

  Her mother was no better, either. She insisted that she was descended from a noble French family, the Mortmerencys, but when I knew her she was a glamour model, though there wasn’t much glamour about any of the magazines she appeared in. She had substance abuse issues, mental health issues, her issues had issues, quite frankly. I hope you’ll forgive me for saying that it was a mercy when she decided to jump in front of a tube train when Rebecca was eight.

  Of course, I did my best for the girl. She was in a council home for children who were too awful to be fostered when I took her into my home. I did everything for that girl. Loved her like she was my very own and I really thought that I’d lifted her up when she went to live with my beloved Aunt Jemima in Bournemouth.

  Instead, she preyed on a weak, elderly lady, demanding a salary even though she was welcomed into a kind, loving home. When my aunt died, supposedly of natural causes though I have my suspicions, the girl had the audacity to suggest that Jemima had left her a bequest. Also, there were several items of jewellery, including my late mother’s wedding ring, which went missing.

  But once again, I felt sorry for the girl, given her tragic start in life, and when I pulled strings to get her on the reality-TV show, I really hoped it would be an opportunity for her to better herself. But when she came out of the Big Brother house, she spurned all my kind offers of representation, claiming that she knew best. Of course, within weeks she was down on her luck and desperate for my help again.

  Now, you may ask why I sent her to Queen’s Crawley to look after five impressionable children? I acted with the best of intentions, believing that Rebecca could only benefit from being in the loving home environment of the dear Sir Pitt and Lady Crawley. I also thought the sweet souls of those five dear, innocent children would act as a balm to Rebecca’s own troubled nature.

  So I was very alarmed to hear that, once again, Rebecca Sharp had inveigled herself into the home and graces of another fragile old lady. Once I’d received your letter, I got in touch with the ungrateful girl, as I really didn’t want to think the worst of her. I was sure that there was a simple explanation, which showed Rebecca in a better light. Also, I have considerable experience of managing such grande dames as Dame Matilda and I couldn’t help but feel that Rebecca would benefit from my assistance. Well, I was wrong! Once again, Rebecca thinks she’s an expert in things she knows absolutely nothing about, and has very rudely rejected my countless sincere overtures to help her and your dear aunt.

  I even popped round to Dame Matilda’s house to see Rebecca in person and she had the audacity to slam the door in my face after using such foul language that it shocked me to the core. I’ve come to the sad realisation that Rebecca Sharp is utterly irredeemable and I urge you to pluck out this thorn as soon as you are able, or you may live to regret it. She can’t be trusted. And though one could say that I am in some small way responsible, I can only put the blame on my soft, tender heart, which has only ever wanted to do right by the girl.

  Give my regards to Bute and do remember me to Sir Pitt, handsome old rogue that he is!

  All best, etc.

  Barbara Pinkerton

  Chapter 16

  As the harshness of winter softened and green buds began to appear on the trees, Dame Matilda Crawley began to fade like the crocuses that adorned the flower beds of Primrose Hill.

  And as she wilted, staying in bed later and later each day, often cancelling her lunch p
lans, and complaining of new aches and pains, Briggs wilted with her.

  Becky had no choice but to banish him from Dame Matilda’s bedroom suite because he quite obviously and tearfully cracked under any kind of pressure.

  ‘I know you think you’re helping, but you’re not,’ she told him softly. That April morning, he’d gazed down at Matilda, propped up on her Pratesi pillow with an eye mask on because she said the light hurt her eyes, and quoted, ‘I can’t live if living is without you,’ as if it were Shakespeare and not a soft-rock anthem by Badfinger made famous by Mariah Carey.

  ‘I used to be a care assistant, so I’m happy to do the heavy lifting. No disrespect, Briggs, but you aren’t exactly a spring chicken and I can handle the sleepless nights much better than you can. Honestly, it would be a way to repay all the kindness that Mattie has shown me.’

  ‘You are a dear, dear girl,’ Briggs said, clasping her hands. ‘But nobody could be devoted to Mattie like I am. I’ve been her slave for the last twenty years. Her happy, happy slave.’

  ‘And now you won’t even let me die in peace,’ came the wavering cry from behind the door, because although Dame Matilda was quite ill, there was nothing wrong with her hearing. ‘I can’t take any more fussing.’

  For the next few days Briggs hung around outside his beloved Mattie’s suite like a faithful, ageing dog, hounding Becky and the three doctors who attended regularly for updates. Eventually he was banished downstairs where Firkin listened impassively as he fretted and speculated on what form Dame Matilda’s tragic demise would take. ‘I can only hope that she goes peacefully in her sleep and that Becky lets me in her room so I can at least hold her hand while she shuffles off this mortal coil.’

  Not even Briggs at his most diligent was as devoted as Becky. She cheerfully dealt with the incessant moaning of a very difficult patient. When Dame Matilda was awake, she read her choice snippets from the Mail Online’s Sidebar of Shame and when Dame Matilda was asleep, she made sure nothing and no one disturbed her. Becky slept on the pink chaise longue, which wasn’t designed to be slept on, and even Firkin was so moved by her care of Dame Matilda that, without asking or comment, she presented Becky with tiger balm-infused heat pads for her bad back.